Author's note/Disclaimer: Am in a dark place lately, can't seem to snap out of it. Been especially antagonistic towards people, but i think i'm gonna be alright.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of my warped imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are purely coincidential.
Certain parts of this story is a little abrupt, some parts way are probably way too graphic for some people's comfort - it's still a work in progress, so feedback are welcomed. I hope to lengthen it into a novella, if the feedbacks are good.
(The title is taken from a My Chemical Romance song of the same name; the opening line "I scream in my sleep" is a tribute to Neil Gaiman's A Study In Emerald. I chose for my hero to have Messiah-complex as a dedication to Gregory House and James Wilson.)Thank You for the Venom
“I've got to warn you - I scream in my sleep,” she told me nonchalantly as she watched me slowly walk up to her. Her gaze was cold, unforgiving, as she gave me a once-over. She had a most commanding air.
Yet to have introduced myself, her statement and tone had me all the more intrigued. I was nervous, but refused to back down that easily.
“I’m told that I snore,” I replied, grinning. I hope that the confident front that I put on was convincing. “Will that be a problem?”
That broke the ice. She seemed satisfied that I could hold my ground - and so we talked and flirted for a bit. As the night passed she warmed to me a little, so I asked her if I could kiss her. She gave me a languid shrug, but I figured that indifference is not rejection – she kissed well.
We ended up spending the night together. I genuinely liked her, and believed that she did too at the time, but on hindsight I think it was just a way for her to pass time. She refused to tell me her name, but I looked into her purse while she was in the bathroom – Raine Lee. As a detective I found it hard not to pry into other people’s business, especially if there was an air of mystery about it. I was surprised to find that she was only eighteen. For a man of nine and thirty I prided myself for being able to attract much younger women, but eighteen is an achievement, even for me.
Little did I know what I’ve gotten myself into that night. There is no doubt that I was hooked from the very start, but from the moment I watched her slowly undress I was a man mesmerized, magicked. I remember all my conquests well; except with her it was more of a euphoric blur – the intensity of the whole affair was electrifying. And as she took charge on top of me, I could tell that she was the perfect fit. She barely made a sound, and that made me anxious, but for some strange reason it also turned me on. As we climaxed she pressed a pillow against my face, cutting off almost all oxygen to my brain. It felt good – the best I’ve ever had. I drifted off to sleep.
She kept her word about the screaming. She woke me soon after as she trashed about violently in her nightmare. I watched her, fascinated; and after a few screams I snapped out of my stupor and I roused her, took her into my arms and held her tight. I assured her that everything was all right. She looked at me and gave me a cynical, borderlining maniacal laugh at my statement, but said nothing else in return. Her breathing soon got steadier and she fell asleep in my arms. And as I watched her again in her sleep – this time she was more subdued – she became my addiction. I felt that it was my duty to fix her. It may seem irrational, foolish even; but by the end of it, I was hopelessly in love.
She was gone when I woke.
After that night, I was a man obsessed. I searched relentlessly, desperate to see her again. There were times when I'd get close, but to my utmost frustration I always seem to be a step behind. Three months and a lot of probing went by before I found records of her abuse, her past. I pulled some strings with a couple of cops who owed me, but even then it took me another week to track her down.
Alas, the night we had together was the only time I saw her alive. I found her but an hour too late. Instinct - or rather, common sense - told me that something was wrong when I found water flowing steadily out from the bottom of her front door. My mind raced. I busted it open, rushed in, and as I burst into the locked bathroom my heart pounded so hard and loud, it was deafening to my ears. It stopped when I saw her – lifeless, her naked skin tinged blue; her wrists were slit repeatedly, and she was swimming in a pink pool of bathwater. I shook her again and again, but from the cold stiffness I knew right away that it was futile. She looked serene – and there was a hint of innocence about her that I’ve not seen before.
Before I reported it in I took the liberty to go through her things, in an attempt to find whatever vague detail I could get in hopes of piecing together her life. After a while I found a stack of letters in her study, all addressed to the same person, all written differently, but with more or less the same content. All were filled with hatred.
From them I learnt much more about her. I would be doing her injustice if I ever try to tell her life with my words. A particular letter struck me to be above the others, and to be devastatingly beautiful.
***
To The Animal,
Today I found the old case photos of myself. It was only when I looked at them again did I realize how terrible the whole ordeal had been.
I hate you. It has been nearly nine years now, but I still hate you. I hate you so much it hurts; deep into every nerve, every vessel and every cartilage in my bones.
I hope you die a violent death; one which involves you being cut open deliberately as you cry in agony, with your tormentor showing no mercy – like how you showed none to me – all the while taking care not to kill you just yet as he mangles your innards, playing with them, taunting you by rubbing them against your face.
I hope he’d slowly burn your face off, dwelling on the pleasure of hearing you scream until the burning flesh melts and fuses your mouth shut. Then I hope he slits your throat and fucks the wound, finally smashing your face in when he’s done and hoists you up to the ceiling with your own intestines, a sign of victory. I hope you enter Hell blind, deaf, dumb and maimed.
I hope for many things. I hope they come true.
Every day, every single day, for three years – you hit me. Sometimes you hit me for my smallest slip-ups, like leaving a used cup on the table instead of washing it, or for not realizing that I’ve accidentally dropped a sock onto the floor when I carried my clothes into the laundry room. But mostly you hit me for no reason at all.
You hit me so hard, my skin breaks and blood comes soaking through. You were careful to aim only for my back, chest, and underarms so that my cuts and bruises were well hidden, especially from Father. But you needn’t have bothered – he found out soon enough, but then he was too cowardly to do anything much about it. Perhaps he was blinded by his love for you. Perhaps he never loved me. Whatever it was - his betrayal to me made you bolder, didn't it?
That blind, stupid, ignorant prick. He was angry when he first found out, of course. But he forgave you soon enough, of course he did, with you being the manipulative bitch that you are. All you do is fake remorse and promise that you will never hit me again; and he’d continue to leave me in your charge. I knew then that it'd steadily get worse.
Other times I thought of running away, but you had me convinced that Mum didn’t want me anymore. I once ran to the little police booth around the corner, but those clowns simply sent me home - I remember you laughing at me while you stripped me naked, stood me in front of the mirror and whipped me with the buckled end of a belt, all the while yelling at me to hold up the police report higher above my head, threatening to hit me even harder if I don't. You stupid cunt – you should’ve let me go; then we wouldn’t have been stuck with each other.
Back then I couldn’t understand why you treated me so cruelly, but I do now. I grew up, I understand things better than I did before. You were paranoid, you wanted Father all to yourself, and to your children. You needed the upper-hand – you needed to feel like you have control over me, over him. Well you can have him. He is nothing but dead to me.
One time a classmate saw me bleed. The gash under my arm was so deep that blood soaked through – a garish crimson against my pristine white shirt, and I couldn’t make the bleeding stop. I tried my best to hide it, I told her that I’ve accidentally cut myself. At that time I was ashamed, you made me believe that it was my fault, that I deserved it. I know now that I shouldn’t have been ashamed, I should've told.
The school was my sanctuary. I dreaded going home, if you can call it one. I dreaded being in the house because Father was never there, but you always were; and who am I kidding – it wouldn't have made a difference even if he was present. You’ve obviously poisoned Father against me, telling him what a terror I am, how hard it was for you to keep me disciplined. Back then I remember crying a lot. I cry, almost every day. I cry when you hit me and tell me that I am nothing; that I’ll never amount to anything.
But do not once think that I was afraid of you, even though I cried. I cried simply because it hurt. I would have grabbed that belt from your hands and proceeded to hurt you back if it wasn’t for your fluke of being pregnant one time right after another. No matter how deeply I resented you, I could not bring myself to hurt an innocent being out of spite alone.
Unlike you.
It took me two years; two years before I had the courage. I finally lost it the night you tore my old storybooks to shreds. They were the only things that I could remember Mum by – all the happy times that we’ve had together before you came into the picture. In the never-ending hostility that I was in, they were my only comfort, my only escape. You knew that, and you thought that you’d break my spirit by destroying them. Well, it backfired as I’ve never felt as much fury as I did that night. You were so scared when I ran to the police station, weren’t you?
I still fantasize about how your reaction must have been like when they came to take you away. I wish that they had brought me along, but they said I needed medical attention. You were lucky when Father bailed you out. The thought of the relief that you must have felt when he did sickens me. You must’ve been a little happy too; he had obviously chosen to be on your side. That blood traitor – he will get his come-uppance one day.
I stayed in the hospital all alone. The day they stripped me naked in that cold, stark, sterile room as they took photos of my wounds for evidence is still fresh on my mind – still painful. I endured countless check-ups, all the agonizing cleaning and dressing of my wounds without a single familiar face as the police tried to locate my family. It was almost too much to bear. God bless the day Aunt turned up, with tears streaming down her face. But even in my happiness of seeing her, I was still obsessing over you.
Mum found out, flew home and took me away. She cried when she saw what you did. Oh, how she cursed you. Mum wouldn’t have left me after the divorce if it weren’t for the fact that she didn’t have the money at the time, and also that I was closer to Grandmother, who took care of me. But Grandmother died, didn’t she? I was too young to understand it then, but I know now that it was you. She was well, healthy and happy; until you came along – you were the reason Grandmother’s heart broke. She lost the will to live. No one loved me more than Grandmother, and you killed her.
Murderer.
But the way you looked in court were almost worth all the abuse. Call me twisted, call me what you will; but nothing pleased me more at the time than the sheer terror on your face. As much as I’ve hoped, I couldn’t deny you your life; but I’ve got your freedom taken away. And what is life without freedom?
You should really thank the Lord that you were still pregnant at the time. I’m sure the sentencing would have been worse otherwise. But tell me, was it fun giving birth in prison?
Must have been the best damn experience of your life.
Thank you for the venom,
Raine.
P.S. When was the last time Father visited you?
***
I wonder if she had ever posted one. I hope for her sake that she did.
I didn’t know nor could I understand why Raine chose that specific time to end her life, until her father was found four days later, when the apartment adjacent to his complained about the terrible stench. The police found him on his bed, flat on his back – a perfect sleeping position – like how you would arrange the deceased in a wake. His face and body were bloated beyond recognition; caused by putrefaction. On closer look, you could see that he had his eyes gouged out, with ears, tongue and manhood severed. The police said that there was no evidence of struggle. In his hand was a piece of neatly-folded ivory white paper, and in it was a poem, written in a familiar hand, as delicate as a gentle breeze:
Where were you when I cried out loud
As the pain came searing through?
You were never there when I needed you.
I wasn’t proud for I begged for help,
You assured me you’ll be true
But you were never there when I needed you.
In my despair the monster grew
It ripped and tore its own way through;
For you were never there when I needed you.
Now the monster dictates my every move
It tells me that the fault is you -
How you were never there when I needed you.
Now where you were I care no more,
But know that all will have to pay their dues.
Know this - you were never there when I needed you!
So as you lay your head at night
Be sure to have locked up very tight
And remember, remember - remember you
Were never there when I needed you.
You were not there.
THE END.
Copyright (C) 2008 by Rachel Lau.
All rights reserved. This story is written as I am incapable of commit actual murder, nor do I think that it's worth spending time in prison for, so I've resorted to killing people in my mind.
